


magic in my veins

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cook’s high on a potent cocktail of adrenaline and nerves after every show. Archie’s there to help him work off the post-performance buzz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	magic in my veins

**Author's Note:**

> I cheated a little and combined rajkumari905’s ‘post-concert high sex’ prompt with asweetdownfall’s ‘reverse cowboy and/or pirate’s bounty’ prompt. hope you guys don’t mind! title from ‘boom clap’ by charlie xcx.

Cook’s high on a potent cocktail of adrenaline and nerves after every show, too full of restless energy to sleep, too wired to even try. Doesn’t matter if he’s dead on his feet beforehand, if a long leg of the tour is running him ragged, a dozen cities in as many days; he always needs something to bring him down, set him straight, something to work off that post-performance high.

Sometimes all he needs is a stiff drink or two, the burn of alcohol enough to dull the frantic edge of his buzzing mind, the overcrowded chaos of a bar – as familiar to him as the stage, a lifetime ago – enough to slow him down, even him out, get him to that point where he can relax, close his eyes, sleep.

Other times all it takes is a few uninterrupted minutes on his guitar in the bus or the hotel room, the twinge of pain as he strums the strings with fingers sore and a little stiff from performing. It’s always helped him to unwind, the slow, soothing twang of the instrument, devoid of the pounding bass line or riotous drums in the background, the hot glare of a million flashbulbs, the sheer wall of sound crashing into the stage. A few run-throughs on his acoustic and Cook feels like he can _breathe_ again, his heart no longer running rabbit-fast.

And then there are times (that tend to coincide with the appearance of one David Archuleta, go figure) when Cook’s relentless energy can’t be slaked with alcohol or the sweet twang of his guitar or even his most valiant attempts at sleep, when all Cook wants to do to sate the shivery, restless itch under his skin is _fuck_ , to feel the hot, slick clench of muscles around his cock, the rake of blunt nails down his back and chest, the press and give of his lover’s tongue against his.

Thankfully his boyfriend is amenable to this idea whenever the urge overtakes Cook and he happens to be within a ten foot radius, mostly (Cook knows) because they don’t get to see each other as often as they would like to and partly (Cook likes to think) because Cook is just that irresistible to his younger lover.

Tonight is one of those nights; Archie’s there, tucked away backstage, watching Cook’s set safe from the prying eyes of the fans (who admittedly would go _batshit_ if they knew David Archuleta was on the premises), and Cook’s playing his goddamn heart out, swaggering across the stage, pitching his voice low and dark and full of promise; he’s showing off and he damn well knows it, but the crowd’s eating it up, screaming his name. He can feel that familiar itch beneath his skin, the rapid rabbit-beat of his heart, knows that as soon as they draw the lights and cut the sound he’ll be off, straight into Archie’s arms.

They crash to the end of ‘Bar-Ba-Sol,’ their last encore of the night, and Cook thanks the crowd with sweat streaming into his eyes, body humming with adrenaline as they scream back at him, and he’s striding off the stage before the lights even burn low. He leaves his equipment in the able hands of his crew, says a quick farewell to the band while ignoring the knowing looks they aim at his back, and then he’s winding his way through the chaos of crew members and roadies and techs until he finds Archie, waiting by the backstage door because he knows how Cook gets, and even though he’s practically buzzing with the need to take Arch to bed he takes a minute to just _look_ at his boyfriend, relishing in the sight of him because goddamn, it doesn’t happen often enough, them being in the same time zone, the same city, the same _room_. He wants to remember every minute detail of this night so he can keep the memory close, clear and sharp and on hand for whenever Archie leaves.

Archie’s wearing a blue and white checkered shirt, jeans and scuffed converse. It’s the same sort of casual, modest outfit Cook’s seen him in a thousand times before, and yet tonight it’s stoking the fire in his blood, just the thought of stripping Archie out of them, tearing down that wholesome, straight-laced outer shell and revealing the sensual, sexual being underneath. Because that’s exactly what Archie is, this strange, endlessly fascinating amalgam of innocence and sensuality, the way he’ll blush if Cook touches him in public but roll Cook to the fucking floor when they’re alone.

Cook knows he’s to be blame for that, exposing Arch to that side of himself. He’d been the first to touch the boy with anything other than innocent affection, the first to show him how good it could be, bodies twined together, slick and hot and close, so deep in each other that they couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Thinking of that, the first time they touched (with purpose, with _intent_ ), only serves to conjure up a plethora of other memories – stolen moments during the Idol summer tour, wrapped around each other in their bunks, time carved out for them between solo tours, holidays, and all of their encounters in-between – and he quickens his steps, more eager than ever to close the distance between them. 

When he reaches Archie’s side he takes the younger man’s hand, sliding their palms together, and even that simple touch sets off a series of sparks along his nerves; he feels like a fucking livewire, crackling with heat and static charge, ready to ignite.

Archie squeezes his hand, gently tugging Cook forward. “Ready to get out of here?” he asks, low and soothing, and even with his skin buzzing with the remnants of adrenaline and euphoria that well-loved voice is enough to calm Cook down, soothe the feverish itch away for a few moments. He feels docile as a lamb as Arch leads him away, out the backstage door and toward the car that will take them to the hotel. 

Of course, his momentary calm lasts about as long as it takes to get Archie inside his room, the click of the lock sliding into place like a spark to a flame. He crowds Arch up against the door, cupping the curve of that beautiful smile in his hands, the way he’d wanted to at the venue, and the urgency is filtering back into his blood as Arch tilts his head, parting his lips for Cook’s kiss. Cook spares a thought, in the last second that he’s able to think at all, that maybe Archie’s feeling it, too, that frantic burst of frenetic energy bubbling to the surface of his skin, rushing through his veins.

Thinks Arch must, with the way he’s pulling at Cook’s clothes, fingers catching in his belt, sliding underneath his shirt to rest, burning hot, on his lower back, pressing his fingertips into the bumps of Cook’s spine. Cook isn’t any better at keeping his hands to himself, his restraint out the fucking window, one hand curled around Archie’s cheek, thumb brushing against the spaces where their mouths are joined, the other sliding down his throat, over his shoulder, down the slope of his back in heated strokes before he tugs Arch closer, and Arch’s heart is beating hard against his chest, a frantic _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_ that sets Cook’s blood to racing.

He can’t seem to stop kissing him long enough to get them both out of their clothes, the swell of Archie’s tongue against his doing nothing to persuade Cook to stop. And the _sounds_ he’s making, god, little gasps whenever they break apart, the way he mewls when Cook runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, the breathless exhalation of Cook’s name when Cook pulls away, pressing his lips to the underside of Archie’s jaw and nipping, not entirely gentle, at the skin.

“Shit, Archie,” he groans, pulling at the hem of Arch’s shirt, raising it over his head and tossing it to the floor so he can press his hands to Archie’s skin. He’s practically fucking shaking with arousal, with pent up energy, his cock a hot brand against Arch’s thigh, even through his jeans.

He presses a rough kiss to Archie’s neck, has to fight hard not to suck a bruise onto that unmarked skin, and unclasps Arch’s belt with trembling fingers, pulling it through his belt loops and dropping it to the floor. In a few moments the rest of Archie’s clothes are in a pool at his feet, and Cook crowds him in close, can’t help but pull their hips together, grind his clothed cock against Archie’s, and he knows the friction must be unbearable against Arch’s bare skin, can barely stand how it feels himself.

“Bed,” he murmurs into Arch’s panting mouth, sparing a moment to swallow Archie’s breathy moan with the heated press of his mouth, and watches as he scrambles up onto the bed, stretching out against the dark brown comforter. 

The lamplight casts a soft golden glow over the planes of his body, the beautifully sculpted curves of his shoulders, his slender chest and flat stomach, the long length of his legs, splayed open and giving Cook an unobstructed view of that sinfully pretty cock, flushed and already leaking against Archie’s stomach, framed by wiry black curls. He’s looking at Cook through the fall of his lashes, still shy despite everything, and damn if that doesn’t tear Cook up.

He presses the heel of his palm to the bulge in his jeans, relishing in the way Archie’s eyes go dark, the flush on his cheeks traveling down his throat and across his chest. He’s always been hot for this, watching Cook, even if he’ll never admit it. It’s all there in the way his eyes follow the motions of Cook’s hand, the way his breath hitches when Cook unbuttons his jeans, unzips, the way he blushes, pretty and red, two spots of color high on his cheeks when Cook wraps a hand around his bare cock, working his fingers down the shaft with slow, languid strokes, letting his groans spill unchecked from his throat; he knows how wild it drives Arch when he’s vocal in bed.

“Look at you,” he says, stalking closer, rucking his shirt up over his stomach, his chest, pulling it over his head. Archie watches him, fingers clenching into the bed covers, licking his lips as Cook continues palming his cock, squeezing the base on every downstroke, not enough stimulation to get him there, just enough to slake the shivery, tight sensation in his gut and groin. “So fucking gorgeous.” So eager and ready for him, body straining against the bed. Cook wants to _devour_ him. “What do you want? Hmm? What do you want, Archie?”

Arch swallows visibly, Cook tracking the bob of his adam’s apple with hungry eyes, and bites his lip, the sight of those pearly whites sinking into that full bottom lip and the resulting rush of blood to the surface enough to wrench a throaty groan from Cook’s throat. “I – “ he starts, then swallows again, his eyes wide and blown black. “You, Cook. Please.”

“Me?” Cook barely recognizes his own voice; it’s dropped into the deep and throaty register he only ever uses in bed, and yeah, he’s teasing, but the pretty pink flush of color along Arch’s cheeks is so worth it. “Where do you want me, Arch?” He tucks his fingers into his waistband while he talks, tugs them and his underwear down past his knees to pool on the floor. Doesn’t think Arch notices that he can’t seem to keep his eyes off Cook’s dick. He braces one knee on the bed, close enough to reach out and touch, but he keeps his hands firmly to himself, wants to drag this out. “What do you want me to do?”

Archie rolls his head against the pillow, closes his eyes. Cook knows he’s a little embarrassed by the strength of his need, the intensity of Cook’s regard, but that doesn’t stop him from telling Cook what he wants. 

“Want you to f-fuck me,” he chokes out, his voice so soft Cook barely hears him, but it’s enough, it’s more than enough, and he falls into Archie’s arms with a muffled groan.

//

By the time Cook’s got three fingers buried in Archie’s ass and his mouth wrapped around the other man’s cock, he can barely _breathe_ for the white hot urgency racing through his veins. The drag of his member against the bed sheets is driving him crazy, Archie’s breathy cries even more so. He’s so fucking hot around Cook’s fingers, slick with lube and saliva because goddamn, Cook couldn’t resist pressing his mouth to that puckered skin, fucking Archie with quick, brutal thrusts of his tongue. Loves how crazy Arch had been for it, how it had wrenched the sweetest sounds from his throat, how he’d had to force himself to slow down, back off, because Arch’s thighs had been trembling against his fingers, his body primed and desperate for release.

Arch’s frustrated groan as Cook had pulled away had nearly undone him, the shaky exhalation of Cook’s name as he’d replaced his mouth with his fingers nearly destroying whatever shred of restraint Cook had left. He’d gone slow, fucking into Archie’s body with sure, steady strokes, until the trembling in Arch’s limbs had subsided somewhat.

But now he can feel that desperation building again, both of them rushing towards completion, and Cook’s more than ready to meet it. He bobs his head, twists his fingers until they brush tantalizingly over the bundle of nerves that he knows will make Arch scream. He’s not disappointed – Archie _keens_ , feet sliding against the mattress, his fingers going vice-tight in Cook’s hair.

“Please, please, oh – _Cook_.” Archie’s babbling, rolling his hips, arching his back, fucking himself forward into Cook’s mouth and then back onto his fingers, so completely desperate he’s practically insentient, and Cook needs to be in him _now_.

He withdraws his fingers, presses one long, lingering kiss to the head of Archie’s cock before pulling away. Archie whines, making a half-aborted movement to pull Cook back down, and holy _fuck_ , Cook loves him like this, desperate and needy and focused so keenly on what his body wants. 

He croons into Archie’s thigh, sweat-slicked and trembling, “Shh. I’ve got you,” his own voice a little breathless with want, and reaches above Arch’s head to grab one of the over-fluffed hotel pillows. He tucks it under Archie’s thighs, slides on his knees between his lover’s legs, and waits, sucking in a breath of hot air, thick with the scent of sweat and sex while Archie trembles underneath him, stomach muscles jumping beneath the sure, steady strokes of Cook’s hands. “Archie? _David_. Look at me.”

Archie opens his eyes, breathing hard, and he presses his hands down over Cook’s on his stomach. 

“Talk to me, Arch,” Cook says, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. This close he can see the frenzy in the younger man’s eyes, a reflection of his own frantic need.

“I’m alright.” God, Arch’s voice is sex-hoarse and shot all to hell, raspier than usual, and he cants his hips. “Just – move. Please. I need – “

“Yes,” Cook nearly growls, palming Archie’s thighs, pressing forward, pressing _in_ , fuck, Archie’s body opening up to him like the pages of his favorite book, slick and hot and tight. 

He tries to go slow, ease Arch into it, but Archie rips his control away, presses his heels to Cook’s ass and _pushes_ , arching his back to take Cook in, inch by glorious inch until he bottoms out, biting out curses between clenched teeth.

“ _Fuck_ , Archie. So goddamn tight, shit.” He grips Archie’s ass, spreading him, and grinds forward, wrenching startled moans from them both.

From there Cook is lost, pulling out slightly only to thrust back in, a slow burn working its way into his muscles, Archie’s cries in his ears. The room is filled with the sounds of their coupling, Cook’s bitten off curses and Archie’s breathy whines, the wet slap of skin against skin.

Archie scrabbles at the sheets, twists them between his fingers, rolling his hips to meet Cook thrust for thrust. “M-more,” he breathes out, tilting his hips, and Cook reaches for his neglected cock, red and leaking against his stomach. Archie watches him through half-lidded eyes, pressing his burning cheek into the pillow beneath his head, and moans encouragement. 

It’s so _good_ , the slick sweet slide of Cook’s cock into Archie’s body, hot and tight and perfect, but it’s not enough, not yet, and Cook grabs Arch’s left leg, moving it higher, curving it over his right shoulder, wrapping the other around his waist and _there_ , god, Archie’s so open like this, legs splayed wide and completely exposed to Cook’s ravenous gaze, and he watches his cock slide into Archie’s hole, the new angle allowing him to go deeper, faster, harder.

“So good,” he chokes out, his thighs burning, his entire body burning with the strain, and he knows Arch is feeling it too, knows he’ll be sore for days after this, they both will. “ _Archie_.” 

Archie’s moaning, breath huffing out of him in half-choked pants of Cook’s name, his hands reaching up to wrap around the slats of the headboard. Cook knows he’s close, can tell it in the renewed trembling of his thighs and the clench of his stomach muscles, and suddenly all of it – the concert, the heady rush of adrenaline and heat that had settled over Cook like a cloud and drove him into Archie’s willing, waiting arms – seems to explode in a rush of light and sound and sensation. He drives forward one, two, three more times, moving the hand wrapped around Arch’s leg to jack his cock through every thrust, and there, there, there – _God_ – 

It seems to go on and on, shivering through their limbs, hot and exhausting and so fucking _good_ it leaves them both shaking in the aftermath. They’re both breathing hard when it ends, Cook collapsed on his side beside Archie, forehead pressed to the younger man’s shoulder, chest heaving. Cook can’t even _move_ , can barely even think – he feels wrung out and wrecked and thoroughly fucked. 

He’s also finally at peace, calm and docile in the wake of their frantic encounter. 

He opens his eyes to find Archie watching him, looking tired and sated and surprisingly smug.

“Feel better?” he asks breathlessly, and Cook huffs out a throaty laugh as he tackles the younger man with what little energy he has left, rolling them both out of the wet spot for some well-deserved sleep.


End file.
